


Warmer than Sunshine

by JoifulDreaming



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:03:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24961999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoifulDreaming/pseuds/JoifulDreaming
Summary: Sharing a peaceful sunrise
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 44





	Warmer than Sunshine

Crowley could hear the anticipatory stillness of predawn before he opened his eyes to see the room draped in inky blackness. He slid his hand to the other side of the bed only to find it unoccupied, but still warm. It was odd, but not startling. He waited, drifting between waking and sleeping for a bit to see if Aziraphale would return. He had wholeheartedly embraced the idea of the angel attempting to sleep with him when they first moved out to the country, but hadn’t counted on how wholly he would take to the task: it was seldom now that Aziraphale woke before him. And, on the odd morning that he did, he often sat up with a book in his hands until Crowley joined him in the waking world. In hindsight, it shouldn’t have been a surprise. Aziraphale had always loved his creature comforts and this was just one more, all the better that they could share it. It helped, Crowley thought, that he did not feel he had to be constantly vigilant against heaven’s critical memos.

Still, Crowley could feel that he was nearby- that gentle tickling itch of an ethereal presence that always came with being near an angel. It was never meant to be a pleasant thing- a warning instead- but he knew the flavor of Aziraphale’s presence and it was a comfort, always. The other angels he had encountered felt more like static against his senses. He sometimes wondered if they felt like that to Aziraphale, too.

He threw back the covers and shuffled out to the kitchen, trying to pinpoint Aziraphale’s location even as he went about preparing coffee for himself and tea for the angel. It was an automatic reaction, and always had been, the locating. A soft vigilance- not guarding against, but wanting to draw near. Part of him always searched, even when he knew the angel was no where near. Hoping, maybe; knowing that it’s better when they’re together.

Crowley knows he’s here and that he’s not inside so, only sparing a moment to consider his lack of dress- he’s only in his pants- and the chilled morning air, he takes the two mugs and heads outside. The garden is mostly still in the darkness, but some of the birds have begun their warm-up tunes, calling for the sun to rise so they may begin their day. His eyes drift upwards, taking in the last few moments he can share with the stars that he helped to create, when he sees a flash of glowing white in the darkness. Aziraphale is perched on the roof of the cottage, wings stretched out behind him.

“Company?” Crowley asks from below, voice hushed so as not to disturb the morning or startle the angel.

“Of course, dearest.”

He pulls his wings out of the ether and shakes the feathers into place before taking to the sky, gliding a couple circles over the cottage before settling almost soundlessly beside Aziraphale. He sits and offers him the mug of tea. Aziraphale wraps his hands around the mug and hums his thanks. He’s much more reasonably dressed: still in his tartan flannel pajamas and a fluffy powder blue robe. On his feet sit the bunny slippers that Anathema and Newt gave him for a house warming gift. Crowley’s still not sure if he finds them hideous or endearing. Something isn’t quite right about the beady black eyes and askew whiskers.

A slightly warmer breeze drifts over them, ruffling their feathers. Crowley can smell the coming sunrise on the breeze and turns to face the horizon in time to catch the sight of the first bit of light in the darkness: the dark blue fading to lighter blue. Still, it’s a bit chilly and damp up here. He scoots closer to Aziraphale, close enough to feel the warmth radiating off of him. Taking the hint, Aziraphale wraps his free arm around Crowley’s waist and pulls him in close, tucking him into his side. Crowley takes complete advantage, snuggling against him and resting his head on the angel’s shoulder. The horizon is shot through with pinks and purples now.

“Missed you.”

“I tried not to wake you.”

“You could’ve.”

“Yes, I know. But, you do look so peaceful when you’re sleeping.”

“s’cause you’re there.” If there’s pink in Crowley’s cheeks, he’ll blame it on the colors in the sky, not that confession. There’s no way for the angel to have seen him sleeping without actually being around for it. The nightmares when he’s not have been severe. Aziraphale squeezes his waist and rubs his cheek over the top of his head, the gentleness chasing away the remembered terrors from before.

Crowley gazes up lazily at their wings, but afterwards can’t drag his eyes away from the sight: Aziraphale’s white wings are painted with all the pastels of the rainbow. Pinks and oranges and purples and blues, the white feathers reflecting colors. Twined together with them, the metallic sheen of his own black feathers reflect the greens of the garden below and the pinks and oranges of the sky. The breeze continues to ruffle through the feathers, making the colors shift in mesmerizing ways.

When he manages to pulls his eyes back to the horizon it is to see the sun finally peek over the horizon, appearing to set the line of it on fire with orange and red and yellow while the sky above is still purple and pink. The last of the stars have faded and the birds are singing their of praises to the sun and a longing for one another.

Crowley wraps both arms around Aziraphale’s middle and squeezes, snuggling in as close as he can now, the sunlight is warming but not as warm as the man next to him. No, it’ll always come second in that competition: the earth was made to circle the warmth of the Sun, but Crowley was made to orbit Aziraphale. All things are in their place.

Some unknown amount of time later Aziraphale shakes him gently awake and they go back inside for a proper breakfast. Crowley ponders the pulsing, swelling, painfully warm feeling in his chest as he watches the angel putter around their kitchen. He thinks he finally has a name for it: he’s happy.


End file.
